(It's really hot today in
Vanillaville. To hot to read a lengthy rant, so I'm going to take it
easy on you, dear readers, with a short blog for today. This blog
completes the Birmingham Blog trifecta.)
Those of you who know me
would probably say that I'm a pretty nice guy (and good looking too.)
But there is one time in my life that the dark side of “the Force”
comes out...a side not shown to many...a side that makes Donald Trump
look like Mother Theresa. You can almost hear the hoof beats of the
Headless Horseman's steed, the wailing midnight bells of a church in
Transylvania during a thunderstorm. I mean this is serious stuff,
when that onerous, nasty and pernicious aspect of yours truly rears
its ugly head. And, dear reader, when does this transformation occur?
No, it's not when I have to decide whether to concede Dr. Demento a 2
foot putt, it's when I'm one of the last people to board an airplane.
It's the one part of
flying I really love. The part when I have to board the flight late
and most of the seats are taken. As I start to walk down the
airplane's aisle, I start scanning the crowd for a row with an empty
seat in the middle. Once I find one, I start looking directly in the
eyes of the people in the aisle and window seats. Remember, I'm 6
feet 3 inches tall and weigh 260 pounds of bent twisted steel. I'm a
16 ounce person in a 12 ounce world with 8 ounce airplane seats. I
can see instantly that they are silently pleading with whatever
entity they know as God that they will never again (fill in the blank
here) if He/She/or It will not let me, also know as The Human Coke
Machine, amble up next to them and point at the empty seat in the
middle. (It's even better if I'm sweating profusely.) I know that
they will offer ANYTHING, ANYTHING to their deity if Godzilla will
simply keep walking. I can read their thoughts: “PLEASE, PLEASE,
PLEASE don't let “HIM” sit beside me. It's bad
enough I have to fly to Sheboygan, let alone do it like a sardine in
a can.”
It's almost palpable, the
feeling of emotional release, I feel from those I pass as I move past them and keep
heading toward the imaginary empty aisle seat further down the plane.
Occasionally, I ruin their entire day by bypassing them initially
then circling back and get them on the rebound once it's
determined there is no room at the inn at the back of the plane. That
tap on the shoulder from the rear to let them know that
Mephistopheles has returned and he's looking to sit next TO YOU,
usually produces the same type of audible gasp you hear when you step
on a frog.
Some days folks, you just
have to take one for the team....and today would be one of those
days.
And later on when I have
to get up and go the bathroom...............
Hell, I feel like I'm
eminently qualified to perform in Cirque du Soleil after the
contortions I have to go through to fit, pee, wash, maneuver and
extricate myself from an airplane bathroom. It's the Southwest
Airlines version of the one man circus clown car. And if there's
anybody waiting in line to use the bathroom after I exit, the look on
their face as they try to picture how 8.7 cubic feet of me fit in the
6.4 cubic foot of bathroom is absolutely priceless.
But now that I have my
neck thingy, Lola, I can sit in either the A, B or the C seat and be
perfectly comfortable while the poor, unwashed masses next to me
suffer.
It's me and Lola “to
infinity and beyond.”
Until next
time...........
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